


All Full With Feasting on Your Sight

by Soul_in_the_Starlight



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/Soul_in_the_Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Full With Feasting on Your Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt and bondkink.livejournal.com
> 
> Craig!Bond/Kinnear!Tanner: Turns out Bill is quite the little tease, even if he doesn't know it himself. Bond has managed to suppress the urge to have his wicked way with him. Until now, that is. So to teach him a lesson, James fucks Bill over his own desk.

Bond's gaze drops to Tanner's feet, and sweeps upwards, slowly and deliberately, taking in every delicious detail. 

Tanner's shoes are black leather; not patent, but polished to an unfeasible shine, the laces neatly tied in bows that are of an almost measured geometric precision. His legs are crossed, and his left leg, on which the leather folio in which he occasionally writes balances, hangs in a tantalising state of relaxation, the hem of his trouser leg ridden up to reveal a few centimetres of coal-black sock and the twin curves of his ankle bones. Bond knows from stolen glances in the locker room at the golf club that Bill has a ridiculously nice pair of legs for a man.

Tanner is sitting in his chair turned slightly towards M, the crossed leg pointing in her direction. From his position, Bond's eyes can follow the path of the double pinstripes of Tanner's suit cloth as they follow a dynamic, sensuous curve from the hem, ascending the shin, rounding over his knee. Finally they race along the length of his thigh, drawing a contour map across the rounded buttock which is half hidden in the shadows of the leather armchair.

Meetings are anathema to Bond. He tolerates them because he has to, but often he feels that he would rather face a thousand different tortures than sit through a meeting. Actions, for this particular double-O agent, most definitely speak louder than words. Nothing is ever solved by sitting around talking about it. This philosophy applies equally to his pent-up lust for his friend, the Chief-of Staff. 

But actions, in the form of throwing Tanner across the desk, and fucking him six ways from Sunday, would likely not sit well with the assembled company. 

So he watches.

He's not sure if Bill is even aware of what a coquettish prick-tease he really is. He is always immaculately turned out in a suit; James loves the pinstripes the best, they emphasise Tanner's height, make him look streamlined. Shirts are always crisp and fresh, and Bond wonders how long Bill spends laundering them, wonders if he has a wardrobe filled with freshly pressed shirts, the matching ties hung with them to speed up his morning routine. He sometimes thinks Tanner gets off on ruthless punctuality, it's disgustingly precise. 

Peeping out from the sleeves of the tailored jacket are the double-fold cuffs which are secured with gold cufflinks. Bond is partial to cufflinks himself, they make a statement with a suit. The statement they make on Tanner is to draw attention to his slender wrists and perfectly manicured hands. His fingers are long and scholarly, the hands of office-based efficiency, not the rude, rough hands that do the dirty work. Bond wonders inside how many women Tanner's fingers might have gently slipped, sliding and thrusting inside soft, wet heat.

_How would they feel as they stroked me to release?_

At this precise moment, those fingers hold a pen. Tanner sits opposite him in the semi-circle of chairs, that leather folio on his lap, dutifully taking notes as M continues to prattle on.

The hand holding the pen rests on the wrist of the other, which lays neatly across the bottom edge of the folio. Those slender wrists, which could easily be secured to bedposts with Bill's own work ties, if Bond had his way. Tanner glances across at Bond for a fleeting moment, his gaze unreadable. The hand holding the pen then lifts, arcing gracefully upwards, until the elbow rests on the chair arm, the tip of the pen sliding a fraction in between Tanner's pink lips. It's all Bond can do not to groan out loud. 

_Dirty._

Bond's imagination suddenly runs wild. He pictures Tanner standing in front of his desk, bent over it. He himself then approaches, crouching behind Bill, running his world-worn hands up the back of Tanner's calves, following the pinstripes up over his knees, gliding over the smooth fabric until both palms come to rest on their prize, that firm, rounded backside. What must it be like? Reaching around and unbuckling the belt, sliding the zip down over Tanner's bulging cock, before slowly easing down the trousers and underwear and pressing himself eagerly between those shapely buttocks?

 _Glorious_ , his imagination informs him.

Bond feels his cock twitch, and crosses his legs. If M is aware of the tension in the room, she doesn't let on. Tanner follows the movement of Bond's leg, from under his lashes, his eyes downcast, gazing upon his notes. He makes a circular motion with the foot of the leg which hangs free from his other. Bond notices how the movement bunches Tanner's calf muscles beneath the fabric of his trousers.

He now imagines those calf muscles bunching as Tanner lays beneath him, on his back, thighs spread wide as he takes Bond in deeper, legs wrapped around him, not willing to let him go.

M's words lost all meaning five minutes after she began speaking. Bond hopes Tanner's notes are comprehensive, as he hasn't a damned clue what's being said. He can't be expected to concentrate when Tanner is pursing his lips as he removes the pen from them to write something more. Bond desires to ravage those lips with his own, before forcing them apart with his hard, straining cock. How perfect that would be, his own bare arse on Tanner's desk whilst his eager Chief-of-Staff is on his knees before him, the serious expression he always wears vanishing from his lips, as his mouth opens wide to eagerly gobble down Bond's shaft. He turns his eyes upwards, those brilliant blue eyes that perfectly match Bond's own, gazing up at him, pupils wide and black with lust, as he devours his agent's cum.

 _My cum_.

The meeting ends, and Bond manages a few perfunctory and generic responses to make M think that he was at least paying attention. There is a fleeting look of slight suspicion on Tanner's face as Bond stands, holding the file he was given at the beginning of the meeting across his groin.

They break for lunch. The world is quiet, so they take advantage. Tanner accepts Bond's invitation to take a long lunch with him.

James is absolutely sure Bill chose the Churros and chocolate sauce deliberately. He himself declines dessert, not wanting to miss a moment of Tanner's indulgence by having to eat his own. They make small talk about the weather, about nameless colleagues, politics, sport, anything that keeps their mouths from saying what Bond certainly feels, and which he is sure Tanner reciprocates, if he'll let himself.

While Bond is speaking, Tanner's shapely hand descends upon the long pastries, plucking one delicately from the china plate before plunging it into the thick, velvety chocolate. Bond watches the curve of Bill's wrist, as he scoops up some sauce, thrusting the long pastry stick between his parted lips, sucking off the sauce before re-inserting it. He bites the end off with a look of satisfaction.

James is pleased there is a solid table top between his lap and Bill, and not one of the trendy glass affairs to which modern restaurants often subscribe; his trousers are straining to bursting point as Tanner continues to subconsciously tantalise him.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you, James?" Tanner asks, pointing to the Churros; the words innocent, but is that a hint of something darker in his eyes?

"I'll wait and grab something later," Bond replies, sipping his Fair Trade coffee. His lust burns hot enough to devastate the rain forests.

_I must have him._

Tanner finishes the Churros, then swipes his middle finger around the inside of the small ceramic bowl, scooping up the last traces, thrusting the finger into his mouth with a hum of satisfaction.

 _Jesus Christ_.

Bond almost comes in his pants.

Tanner slowly withdraws his finger, looking at Bond, mistaking the look of lust on his face for disapproval.

"Sorry, James, where are my manners? That was rather filthy of me."

Tanner is sheepish, his cheeks slightly pink.

"Yes, it was," agrees James, swallowing the urge to grab Bill's hand and suck hungrily on those long fingers himself.

On the way back to headquarters, they stop at a chemist so that Tanner can by some breath mints. 

"I can't go breathing chocolate all over M," he explains, "she's on a diet."

Bond thinks that he really wouldn't mind Bill tasting of chocolate as he kisses him roughly; although he'd rather taste his own cum on Bill's tongue.

The afternoon drags on into evening. Bond detests the interminable lull between field missions; the treadmill of paperwork, firearms refresher training, psychological assessments, all the myriad, tedious things designed to keep him honed and ready for the next great impending catastrophe.

The only advantage is that it keeps him close to Tanner, the proximity to whom keeps Bond's pulse raised higher than any treadmill workout.

_Tonight._

Bond makes a firm decision. Or rather, it is the firmness of his cock that makes it for him.

Tanner rarely, if ever, leaves headquarters before M. It's something about old fashioned courtesy, Bond suspects, seeing her safely in to her car before Tanner can feel at ease enough to make his own way home. James wonders why Bill doesn't just move in here; he's first in, last to leave, and Bond can't even remember the last time Tanner took a holiday. This evening is no exception to his pattern, and despite finishing his own assigned tasks for the day, Bond hangs around, feigning interest in one of the enemy profiles.

One by one the other personnel leave, and soon Bond is alone. He sits for a few long moments in the half-lit office, trying to get his hammering heart under control, the surge of adrenaline at what he is planning floods his body, dilating his pupils, beading sweat on his brow, his fingers drumming impatiently on the desk, as his cock demands satisfaction.

Suddenly Bond stands, kicking the chair out from behind him, and striding towards his goal. There is singular determination in his mind and loins, as he finds Tanner reaching for his coat.

_Just action._

Tanner is caught off-guard as Bond takes hold of is outstretched arm, spinning him round. Before the look of surprise registers, Bond has covered Tanner's mouth with his own, backing him up against the wall next to his desk, pinning him there with his body.

There is a moment of struggle, Tanner tries to twist his head away, but Bond presses his hips against Bill's and feels a reciprocal bulge against his own. He tears his lips away from Tanner's, to look in his eyes; he's not a rapist, if Tanner doesn't want it, he'll stop.

But there's no mistaking the look in Bill's bright blue eyes: pupils blown wide beneath heavy lids, chest heaving before Tanner's hands pull Bond's face towards him, crushing their mouths together. There's pushing, moaning and hot, heavy breathing; hands desperately seeking, jackets removed and ties loosened. 

_No words._

Bond hadn't expected such eagerness from Tanner, but this proved his suspicions correct; the teasing slut had been deliberately provocative, purposefully whipping James up into this frenzy of lust.

Tanner is turned face down across his desk now, all Bond's fantasies of reverent exploration lost in the heat of his need. 

" _James_ ," chokes out Bill, but Bond growls, his hands reaching round to unbuckle the belt, tear at the fastenings, pulling on the fabric, hearing stitching tear.

"Shut up," James orders, getting a whimper of frustration in reply.

Bond quickly fumbles with his own clothes, and now they're both exposed, Bond's cock dark and angry, Tanner's arse cheeks pale and inviting. Before pushing his trousers down further, Bond rips open the small sachet he stole from the chemist, secreting it in his pocket while Tanner was buying mints, spreading the moisture across the heat of his shaft.

He moves up close behind Tanner who is bent over the desk, legs apart, arms shakily supporting him on the desk top, trembling with anticipation and desire. Bond puts one hand on Tanner's naked hip, revelling in the moan it provokes as his other hand gently smears the remains of the moisture across Tanner's hidden entrance.

Bond has fucked men before; the seduction training was fastidiously thorough; he's had to put it in to practice numerous times. But to do this now because he _desires_ it, is a whole new and exciting experience. James doesn't know for sure if Bill's arse is untried, as he slowly and carefully pushes forward. Gently overcoming the initial resistance rewards him with a tight warmth that makes him catch his breath, hearing Bill's own breathing change to ragged, almost desperate half-sobbing. Bond presses steadily deeper.

When he can move forward no further, Bond stops, patiently allowing Tanner to get used to the unfamiliar fullness, waiting until his breaths even out, both hands on Bill's hips to steady him, thumbs softly rubbing, reassuring. 

Finally, Tanner starts to move beneath him, pulling forward slightly, then easing slowly back. Bond waits, curbing his impatience, allowing Bill to establish a comfortable rhythm of his own before he starts to gently thrust forward to meet Bill's backward push. Tanner groans, and Bond grins, still feeling smug that he was right about the Chief-of-Staff wanting this. 

Gradually their movements get faster, and Tanner pulls further forward, pushing back more greedily as Bond slicks deeply into his body. James puts a hand on Bill's shoulder, grabbing a fistful of shirt, the wet sounds of his cock's steady, piston-like motion punctuating the sound of their moans. Suddenly Tanner takes his right hand off the desk, dropping low on to the forearm of his left, his free hand now reaching under himself to tug at his cock as Bond starts to pound him in earnest now.

The gentle, almost cautious beginning to the act is forgotten; both men are lost to the primal desire urging them on. Tanner furiously pumps his cock as Bond fucks him harder and surprisingly, more deeply. Bond tightly grabs Tanner's hips with both hands now, fingers pressing hard enough to mark, pulling Bill's eager arse on to his cock with a feverish enthusiasm. An involuntary cry of surprise escapes his throat as Tanner stiffens momentarily with a long, loud moan, slumping forward slightly over the desk, as he empties himself across the varnished wood grain. He narrowly misses his keyboard.

As Tanner's continued tense spasms accompany his final spurts, Bond comes undone, shooting his cum inside Bill with a loud expletive.

" _FUCK!_ "

The aftermath is surprisingly tender; a slow, careful withdrawal, soft kisses and shy smiles as handkerchiefs are deployed and clothes re-arranged, a promise made to foot the repair bill for the trousers.

They leave together silently, taking a cab back to Tanner's place, Bill's hand on Bond's thigh all the way.

 _Louder than words_.


End file.
